


Minding the Palace

by tunteeton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Mentions of Canon, Mind Palace, Not Terribly Graphic Torture, POV Alternating, imaginary sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1347643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Sherlock went into his mind palace, and the one time when he didn't have to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction to His Mind, Or the Lack of It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this fic might be a bit of a weird ride. It's all across the board from cutesy stuff to something - decidedly less so. So if you're here for fluff, you might want to stop reading after the fourth chapter. There are warnings later as well.

The first time it happens, John has been flatsharing for less than a fortnight, but his world has already been turned upside down. Living with Sherlock Holmes is an exercise both in patience and the ability to cope with stress. He's found his first body parts in the kind of places spare body parts should have no business to be, the microwave exploded a week ago and Sherlock keeps dragging him around London at all hours. His cane became briefly a quarterstaff when a customer turned out to be the culprit after all and now it serves as a kind of totem pole in the corner of their living room.

Yes, that's correct. Sherlock tied. A dry human arm (male, Caucasian, separated from its owner decades ago). Into his cane. And left it in the living room. It's for an experiment. Probably. Hopefully.

In other words, John Watson is finally alive and feels _magnificent_. He has a flatmate who is mad, madder even than that one colonel in Afghanistan, and his life is never boring, never colourless any more. Sherlock Holmes is the deepest night, and the brightest day, and the most amazing, brilliant thing John has ever met. Sherlock is mad, and Sherlock is invulnerable, and Sherlock is out of this world.

And then Sherlock has an epileptic fit, in the kitchen, while John is sitting right next to him doing crosswords and the morning sun is just starting to warm their floors. The detective has been up all night, but this has already become a norm and John didn't even bat an eye when he found him pacing around in the same clothes he had had on yesterday. He made two cups of coffee, then drank two cups of coffee, because Sherlock was too agitated, too far into the case to stop for breakfast. John located the newspaper (which was still in one piece, oh wonder of wonders) and settled into his chair for some quiet morning time. Soon enough, Sherlock would snap out of it, herd him towards the next criminal, the next chase, the next opportunity to creatively insult somebody.

John has learned to savour the simple moments as they come, scarce as they are.

And then Sherlock goes rigid, right where he's standing in the kitchen, and the sudden lack of noise has John raising his head, glancing that way, and in the next moment he has thrown away the paper and is on his feet, hands outstretched and reaching, a voiceless cry in his throat.

Because Sherlock is having an epileptic fit, his eyes empty and staring into a thousand different directions, his lips forming and whispering words faster than John can comprehend, his hands moving wildly, jerkily, in front of his face, and how is he not falling down, how can he stay upright while this is happening? And John is poised to catch him, because surely this is epilepsy, what else could it be, what else could it possibly be? And he's a trauma surgeon, not a neurological specialist, but he knows that there are types of epilepsy without the telltale seizures, and if this isn't it he's not worthy of his license.

That this is happening to Sherlock is an impossibility. Sherlock is above these things, he's a fortress, he's untouchable. He is, he is, _he should be_.

And John cannot quite make that contact, because he hasn't ever actually touched Sherlock before. There are boundaries the detective doesn't even acknowledge, but John is still unwilling to cross. And right here, right now, he has found one of those boundaries. Sherlock is vulnerable, unable to give his consent, and John can't, won't touch until it's absolutely necessary. He leaves his hands hovering helplessly in the air close to the man, waiting for the inevitable fall and calls his name, worriedly, more and more frantically when there's no response, no sign that Sherlock hears him.

“Sherlock? Sherlock? Sherlock!”

The grey eyes continue their frantic flickering, the whispered words pour unfinished from the detective's lips, the hands jerk and flail and hit John's own. It's only for half a second, less than that, but Sherlock's skin is hot, is soft, and John loses his breath, because this, here, is his proof. Sherlock is human, he's real, he can be _hurt_ , and while John is watching his eyes slide shut and a satisfied smile turns the corners of his lips up. He stretches his neck, rolls his shoulders, and John is left frozen, ready to leap in front of him, the building bricks of their short cohabitation stolen from under his feet. This. Should not be happening. To Sherlock.

“Sherlock!”

Those eyes fly open and Sherlock starts, surprised to find him so close, steps back and dusts his shirt.

“It was the priest, not the father-in-law,” he says, but John is not interested in the case right now.

“Why didn't you tell me you had a medical condition?”

Sherlock blinks, shrugs. “I don't.”

Didn't he notice? Has the poor man been living alone for so long that nobody ever saw that, ever told him?

“Yes you do,” John states. “You were having absence seizures just now.”

That's not met with the seriousness John feels should be there. Sherlock brushes some imaginary lint off his trousers, turns his back on John and starts towards the door.

“I was in my mind palace. Get moving, John, we are going to New Scotland Yard. There's a killer to catch.”

He follows, questions flooding his mouth, but Sherlock is on a case, doesn't listen, doesn't probably even really realise he's there. John grasps his jacket and follows Sherlock out of the door.

He doesn't yet know it, but he will always follow.


	2. In Which They Play a Game

The whole idea is totally ridiculous, but that's Sherlock in a nutshell. His erratic forays into his 'mind palace' become just another part of their lives, and while John never gets used to finding his flatmate unmoving and absent from his own body, he learns to accept it the same way he accepts grilled uteri in his fridge and the constantly disappearing ginger biscuits from his cabinets. That is to say, gruffly and with bad grace.

But Sherlock remains an impossibility, an enigma, and an infuriating one at that. And he's been so rude to Sarah recently that John feels he's got the right to a revenge, just a small one. A harmless one. Something ridiculous, fitting the utter ridiculousness that is Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting cockblocker.

Yes.

Something like this, for example.

Sherlock was sitting, this time, when he decided to tune out of the everyday life otherwise known as John Watson and 221B Baker Street. He often does that, and it's taken John a couple of weeks to figure out when he's just thinking and when he's actually gone, off to that mysterious place where he stores his knowledge, his memories, even the freaking _Larousse Gastronomique_ as far as John knows.

John is sitting in front of his flatmate, playing a game. The game is simple, yet fulfilling. When Sherlock is in his mind palace, he never stays completely still. There are the eye and hand movements which scared John shitless that first time he witnessed them, but sometimes Sherlock walks around. On one unforgettable time, he sang. John still gets shivers when he remembers that.

So Sherlock can sing, all right. And the things that baritone voice does to Italian (at least he suspects it was Italian) should be ruled illegal, at least if performed before the nightfall.

Ahem. Back to the business at hand.

Because now Sherlock is sitting down, and that restricts his movement range quite a bit. Enough for John to practise his hand-eye-coordination, always a useful skill for a surgeon or a sharpshooter. He has gathered a pile of their everyday household items, books, cutlery, the blue scarf, Billy the skull and placed them on the little table by Sherlock's chair.

John wins if he can pile them all on Sherlock before the annoying git resurfaces.

Technically speaking, Sherlock doesn't know he's playing, but John feels merciful. Sherlock wins if he wakes up before John's done with him or if he manages to stir enough to disturb the items and drop them to the floor. If they end up on the chair, or if John catches them on their way down, the game continues.

Well, then. By Sherlock's own immortal words, the Game is On.

John ponders the stuff for a moment and selects Sherlock's blue scarf. He ties it into a loose knot and places it, carefully, on his flatmate's head where it sits like the world's most half-assed turban. Sherlock, the total git, somehow manages to not look silly, but makes up for that by staying still enough for John to keep on advancing.

His grandmother's silver fork finds its place inside Sherlock's breast pocket, and the perpetually unsolved Rubik's cube lands gently on the turban-scarf. Sherlock frowns, shakes his head and John holds his breath. The scarf-fort slides a bit to the left but stops before it would be in a real danger of falling down. John empties his lungs, plans his next move.

There are five books, and he initially thought about placing them on Sherlock's lap, but now he fears they'd be too heavy, enough to draw the detective back into the material world. Shoulders, then, two on both, and only one on his lap. John spends a careful ten minutes balancing them, but he wasn't made a captain for nothing. In the end, Sherlock sits still as a statue, only his mouth forming unfinished words and his eyes flickering under the closed lids. John places the last book on his lap, and right then Sherlock's eyes pop wide open.

Caught, like the proverbial deer in the headlights, John sits and waits, his hands still gripping the edges of the book – _The Children's Encyclopaedia_ – and waits for the verdict. Sherlock frowns, skips his gaze right over the room, over John and he's not back yet, he's not back yet. John sighs, lets go of the book, and Sherlock shrugs, sending all the other volumes tumbling down.

Later, John will sit down and analyse the next seconds very carefully, but now he just reacts, the way he was taught to, first in the operating theatre, then in the army. He snaps into a battle zone, calculates the trajectory of the objects and lunges. He ends up lying on the floor, one book dangling from the fingers of his left hand, another caught between his ankles. The other two, it turns out, landed on the chair.

John is breathless, and trying very hard not to laugh, and he's still playing the game.

It's not over yet.

Wiggling up without letting the volume currently held by his feet fall down is surprisingly difficult, but he manages. It is, after all, very important that the book not touch the floor. When he's back in a sitting position, he takes a moment to inspect the damage Sherlock's sudden movements wrought.

The turban-scarf is still where he placed it, if a bit lopsided, but he doesn't dare to correct its position. The cube is nestled safely inside the knot, and the fork gleams dully against the crisp white shirt. There are three books now on Sherlock's lap, and John is holding the two others. He considers placing them, too, on the scarf, but that would surely end in defeat. There's nothing for it, then. It's the shoulders or nothing.

He only has two books and the skull left. He can do this. After all, of the two of them he's the one who invaded Afghanistan.

The game is proving to be even more entertaining than he had anticipated.

It's easier this time, with only one book per shoulder to be placed, and soon John is left with Billy. What to do now? Sherlock is muttering to himself, getting more restless, and John thinks he's probably coming back in a minute. Hurry, then. Do something now.

Sherlock's hands jerk, raise up, and John panics, drops the skull into the nest of them. Immediately, Sherlock slides his fingers over the top of the smooth bone, down to the eye sockets and the zygomatic arch. He makes a move as if to squeeze, if Billy had a neck for that. He grins, focuses on John and leaps to his feet.

“Obvious! He hanged himself by mistake with the eloping neighbour's washing line!”

There's a clatter of sound as Sherlock sheds the books, the scarf, the cube and John is sitting by his feet, open-mouthed and red-eared. Sherlock stills, looks down at him, at the skull, at the room. 

“John?” And there's confusion, he's never heard such confusion in Sherlock's voice before. He grins.

“We were playing a game.”

Sherlock takes a moment to ponder this.

“Oh. Who won?”

John inspects the mess, the scarf and the cube and the books scattered around the room, the skull still in Sherlock's hands. He reaches out and points at the fork in his flatmate's pocket.

“I think it's a draw.”


	3. In Which Sherlock Works It Out and John Is Worried

And then comes the time, soon after their catastrophe of a meeting at the pool, when Sherlock goes into his mind palace and doesn't come back. He's been quiet, too quiet in John's by this time quite educated opinion, brooding over Moriarty and who knows what else. A couple of times, John thinks he's heard low voices from the living room during the long, sleepless night hours, the Holmes brothers discussing something private.

Sherlock must be taking James Moriarty very seriously indeed if he's willing to include Mycroft into his plans. When the muttering voices wake him, John always sighs, turns around and tries to go back to sleep. The nightmares are back now, different from what they used to be but no less harrowing. So this time, when he wakes up covered in sweat and the technicolour picture of Sherlock exploding into a pink mist still painfully clear in his mind, he takes the coward's way out and pads downstairs in search of nocturnal company.

Sherlock is standing by the window, cradling his violin, but he knows John's standing there. He always knows.

“Another nightmare?”

John nods, even though Sherlock (in all probability) doesn't have eyes on the back of his neck, and slumps down into his chair.

There's a quarter of an hour of silence, during which time Sherlock stays, unmoving, by the window and John stares at his back, telling his brain that he's alive, well, and not currently kidnapped by James-fucking-Moriarty. There are no snipers here, just the familiar walls of their home.

When Sherlock finally moves, with stiff limbs, it is only to flop down onto the couch. There's not a look, not even a glance at John's direction. He could as well be a ghost in his own house. How encouraging.

“I'm going into my mind palace,” Sherlock declares, which is unusual. Normally he doesn't bother with such pleasantries, relying on John figuring it out when he stops responding, stops reacting.

“Fine,” says John. “It's not like I wanted company anyway.”

But somehow Sherlock is comforting even when he's as good as unconscious, and after a moment John shuffles closer, sits on the corner of the table, leans in.

He will never, ever admit it to anybody that he has gotten into the habit of staring at Sherlock while he's in his mind palace, but he has, and he _is_. Because Sherlock's natural state is that of manic energy, or sometimes, worse, of depressed lethargy. Rarely is he like this: peacefully still. John has spent hours just looking, fighting the temptation to touch, to find out with his own fingers if Sherlock's hair is as soft as it looks like, if his cheekbones are as sharp as they appear to be.

After the pool, after having unwanted hands all over himself, John Watson has grown very aware of personal space, of consenting touch. He wants to land just one finger on Sherlock's skin, but he won't ask, won't put either of them into that position of having to say no. And since it's unlikely that Sherlock will one morning, over his cup of breakfast coffee, just tell him that it's all right for John to run his hands over Sherlock's prone body while his mind is elsewhere, things will not change. The desire won't go away.

But John has become very good at looking, and imagining.

Eventually, he falls asleep, slumped over the low table, his legs on the floor. And when he wakes up, his body hates him, but Sherlock hasn't moved one inch. John stands up, and stretches, and grimaces at the pain in his shoulder. It's time for a walk. Exercise is good for warming up tense muscles, and he can do a shop run at the same time.

Sherlock is still in his mind palace when John returns, and still when he goes to bed that night, and _still_ when he wakes up the following morning. He grows concerned over the day, and when Sherlock hasn't moved a finger in 38 hours John finally snaps and touches, grips his shoulder and _shakes_.

“Sherlock? That's enough. Come out of it already.”

Sherlock's skin is warm under his t-shirt, and his breaths come in slow, even intervals, and he's utterly oblivious to John's touch. He's not running a fever, he doesn't appear to be in any danger, but surely there are – things – bodily functions, that even Sherlock Holmes has to acknowledge now and then. When did he last drink? John can't remember. When did he use the toilet?

What an impossible, onerous, indispensable human being he is.

John groans, shakes again. Harder.

“Sherlock!”

He could as well be talking to a statue.

That night, John sleeps in the living room, just in case. In the end it doesn't matter, because there's probably more action in Molly's morgue than in Baker Street during those dark hours. In the morgue the corpses at least occasionally twitch. Sherlock remains still, as if carved from stone, and John's worry keeps on growing. Where are the frantic gestures, the muttered words? What can take this much time, this much pure concentration, in Sherlock's mind?

In the morning Sherlock's clocking 50 hours and John has had enough. He shakes, he yells, he begs. Everything seems to fall on deaf ears, but now John is starting to get honestly worried. He knows Sherlock has gone longer times without sustenance in the past, but surely he must be getting at least thirsty. Something needs to be done.

Raiding the kitchen uncovers some meat stock cubes, and quite soon John has a broth boiling. Sarah calls when he's waiting for it to cool a bit, and John has to turn her down. This is not actually a medical crisis, but it could as well be. He can't justify leaving Sherlock like this. He just can't.

“This is about him again, isn't it?” She asks, and John knows this relationship is over soon. Thanks a lot, Sherlock bloody Holmes.

“Yeah,” he sighs and looks helplessly at the infuriating figure on the sofa. Sarah doesn't comment on the frequency this keeps on happening, but her silence is an answer in itself. The conversation from that point on is forced, strained. Very soon she excuses herself, telling John to call to her when the moment is better.

With a friend like Sherlock Holmes, John very much doubts that moment will ever come.

He returns to the sofa armed with the broth and a spoon, and encounters a new problem. How to get the soup into Sherlock? In theory, it's easy. Here's the spoon, there's the plate, and there's Sherlock's mouth. It should be a simple case of inserting the spoon into that mouth, but quite suddenly this feels way too personal for John's mental peace. Forcing anything into Sherlock is unthinkable. Oh well. Time to plead some more, then. He loads the spoon, places it gently against Sherlock's lips. The liquid is warm and smells delicious. Maybe Sherlock will co-operate.

“Please open your mouth,” he says, and hopes, but Sherlock didn't get the title of the world's most difficult flatmate for nothing. Those lips stay closed. John pokes, tramps down the urge to just _push_. The memory of the leering madman in a smart suit is too strong.

“Open your mouth now,” he tries again, and this time Sherlock's lips curl up into a small smile and it's enough, or almost enough, and John holds his breath and goes for it.

It's not exactly elegant, and some of the broth ends up on the bastard's cheek, but in the end a thick, salty stream flows into Sherlock's mouth, and when it hits his dry tongue everything changes. Suddenly he's sucking, licking, whining for more and John can't refill the spoon quickly enough to satiate that need. He keeps on offering a spoonful after a spoonful, and tries not to marvel at the fact that here he is, feeding his adult, _male_ flatmate, instead of dating a perfectly nice woman. What choices, what curious incidents, led him here, into this peculiar moment?

And still Sherlock is demanding more, and John tries hard not to stare at those lips. It's difficult, because they are shining now, curling around the spoon, wet and salty and so needy he can't help imagining them around something else, equally salty but more organic.

_Stop that thought now, stop it right now._ It's dangerous, having these kind of ideas around this genius shipwreck of a man. He's made his position perfectly clear, and John is fond of him, more than fond. But he's not a teenager anymore, and losing Sherlock because he couldn't keep his hormones in check would be unforgivable.

Too soon the soup is gone, but Sherlock still strains for more. How thirsty must he be, how starved, for the simple broth to have such an impact? Idiotic, irresponsible man, it's all his own doing.

“It's gone now, you ate all of it,” John tells him, and Sherlock groans, licks his lips, and oh, that tongue. It's fast and shiny and clever, and John wants to _taste_.

“Just come back, and you can have anything you want to,” he sighs, not excepting an answer. So of course he gets one.

“Anything?” Sherlock repeats, and opens his eyes. Just like that he's in charge, and John is still very close, hovering above him with the plate and the spoon. Sherlock's eyes are dark, misty from the misuse. He blinks, a slow smile gracing his face, and John doesn't know what to do.

“You heard me?” He asks stupidly, because clearly that's the case, and Sherlock doesn't approve of useless comments, but this time the detective doesn't seem to care, even endorses that sort of behaviour.

“Anything?” He asks again, and John shrugs. There are more beef stock cubes in the kitchen, and they can always order takeaway.

“I guess.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth Sherlock jerks up, a bit clumsily, and pushes his lips against John's own. It's not exactly a kiss, just gentle pressure, but John's brain halts anyway. This is not – . This shouldn't – . _Sherlock_ is not – . Finishing a thought is an impossibility. There's warm breath on his face, and what – ?

“I figured it out,” Sherlock whispers, his lips still over John's, and John can feel the words on his skin. He licks, automatically, and the _taste_ , salt and beef and under that Sherlock himself, and oh, oh. His lips are soft, and warm, and salty, and John put that salt in there. It's his doing, John's fault and John's merit, that Sherlock Holmes' lips taste like beef stock and promise, and this is actually happening.

“Great,” he hazards, completely out of his depth, out of his mind, possibly out of the whole planet. Sherlock Holmes is pseudo-kissing him. Right now. Kissing. Him. John Watson. On their sofa. Right.

What?

“I think so too,” Sherlock sighs, happily, and then he pushes himself up, away from John, and John lets out a high whine, because _no_ , because he only just understood what's happening, but Sherlock is already standing, tottering towards the bathroom. The only thing left is the taste of salt and the plate on his hands and the wild beat of his heart. It's not enough.

“Later,” Sherlock says just before disappearing behind the closing door, and there's such certainty in his voice.

Just like that, John is ravenous.


	4. In Which John Makes a Grand Entrance, Even Though He Wasn't Invited

At first Sherlock had thought that getting John Watson as a flatmate was a good idea. John seemed to be the steady, polite type, and at worst Sherlock would get a couple of months' worth of rent out of him before John would inevitably become fed up and leave. Then John complimented him, called him amazing, and Sherlock thought that John Watson as a flatmate was actually a rather great idea.

Then John killed a man for him, smiled and lied to the police for him, and Sherlock knew that _keeping_ John would be a brilliant idea, maybe the best idea he'd ever had. And wonder of wonders, John had seemed to agree. They soon fell into a kind of exasperated familiarity, and John only lost his temper with him at acceptable intervals. It was all very fine indeed, and Sherlock found himself getting intrigued, interested, even _interested_.

But then the whole mess with Moriarty happened, and suddenly John was angry with him, disappointed and rash, and Sherlock was confused. He was solving the cases as fast as he could, and they really were quite clever, such a novel idea, and what was John's problem? Sherlock isn't a hero, never claimed to be, he's very aware that he's deeply faulted, a weirdo, a freak. Putting him on a pedestal wouldn't work well for anyone concerned. He told John as much, but alas, there are moments when logic won't have the desired effect, and this was one of those moments. John remained agitated, Sherlock distracted.

And _then_ James Moriarty kidnapped John from the streets, put him into a Semtex suit and stole his words, and there was talk about hearts and burning. And for a moment, Sherlock's world went white, went a brilliant, blinding shade of white, and then he was on his knees for John, because getting that vest away from him was a priority, was the most important thing in the world. He understood then that John was important, John was crucial, John was essential. And John was shaking, was panting, and Sherlock desired revenge, death and destruction, because some things should never happen and still were happening.

There was a moment in time, not so long ago, when Sherlock used to consider his own death poetically pleasing, but lately he's found out that he'd much rather keep on living. So the dying falls to Moriarty, and Sherlock finds himself motivated enough to discuss things with his brother. But even though James Moriarty is as good as dealt with, John remains shaken. His nightmares have intensified, his rituals broken. Sherlock stays downstairs, listens and despairs and tries to figure out how this can be solved, how John can be fixed.

And now he's coming down, stumbling on the stairs, and Sherlock can't deal with it, the way his hair curls on the sweaty forehead, his feet drag on the wooden floors. It's wrong, and there's got to be a way, a cure, something. So Sherlock goes to the only place where he can think in peace, where he has stored all his knowledge, all his memories, all the facts and the theories and the bibliographies he's amassed through the years. John is singular, but surely there's something in this vast place which will help?

The corridors of his palace are well-lit, cared for and clean, and Sherlock storms through them, takes the familiar route home. The door for 221B remains open and waiting, and he steps through, expecting to see John on his chair or by the kitchen table. But while everything is as it should be, his microscope, the bookcases, even the latest unfortunate microwave, there's no trace of John. He's not upstairs either, and Sherlock turns around, stares, confused.

It's his palace, his rules, his mind. How can John be missing?

It's a mutiny, a breach of rules so profound he almost jolts out of there, back to the real-world living room and the real John, the one with bruised eyes and barely shaking hands.

But no, that's unacceptable. Sherlock's on a mission here, and he doesn't intend to fail. He has to find John.

–

He's aware that time here has a different quantity than the one the rest of the world has agreed upon. It feels like he's been searching for hours, but that's probably not correct. If he opened his eyes now, it wouldn't have been more than a couple of minutes.

He keeps on looking, running through the empty corridors.

–

Spider webs. There are spider webs in the forgotten corners of the palace, but no sign of John. Sherlock swipes them down angrily, but that turns out to be a mistake. Because the rules of this place are convoluted, symbolic and often subconscious, and the spider turns at him, grows and throws the whole hallway into shadows. In its place now stands James Moriarty, complete with the black irises and the expensive suit, and from the walls emerge rows of sniper rifles, all pointed at Sherlock himself. 

“Where's John?” Sherlock snarls. It's still his palace, his rules. Moriarty is just a figment of imagination, not real, not a danger. Not here.

“Oh poor Sherlock, lost his heart,” Moriarty sings malevolently. “And now he comes to _me_ for help, isn't that just _precious_?” He stalks closer, until they are nose to nose, and Sherlock can smell the madness on the other man.

“Oh go to Hell,” he growls, but the Spider just cackles.

“Where's your _heart_ , Sherlock? Where have you put it? Where's it, if not in your _che-est_?” And Moriarty pokes at his shirt, taps right over the romanticised muscle, and Sherlock understands.

Of course. Obvious.

He turns around and runs.

In retrospect, it's not necessary.

–

Oh God he's been blind. He's been so blind.

He knows now that there will never again be a physical manifestation of John Watson in the palace. There can't be. There's a very good reason for that. There's not any need for John to have an avatar here, because he's everywhere. He's in the half-made crosswords in the newspaper on the kitchen table, in the neatly organised medical folders and in the perfectly prepared mug of Earl Grey by the fireplace. But he's not only in these placeholders for Sherlock's memories.

Somehow, without Sherlock noticing, without him understanding, John has slipped through all his defences, permeated the very air of this place with his presence. And now John Watson is literally everywhere. He's in the ceiling, in the walls, in the staircases of Sherlock's mind palace. As such, looking for him is absurd.

Here, John cannot be seen, but that doesn't make him absent. On the contrary, Sherlock only has to close his eyes, inhale, and he feels him, senses him in every way possible, drowns in the data that makes up John Watson.

And oh, _oh_.

Isn't this unexpected.

But of course, there's a place for everything, and now it's time to deal with Moriarty. But after that, when this mess is solved, the case closed, there are things he wants to do, wants to try for the first time in his life. And he very much intends for John to experience them with him.

In his mind palace, Sherlock opens his eyes to a brilliant morning. And on the couch, he opens his eyes to an equally arresting sight: John Watson's exasperation. John promises him anything, everything, and Sherlock takes the only thing he wants. Under his lips, John sighs, and shudders, and Sherlock knows the palace is still growing, still morphing in John's image.

Later, he promises both himself and John. Later.

Turns out it's not quite that simple.


	5. In Which There Is Only Death And Despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of torture and imaginary sex in this chapter.

The first months are easy. He travels around the globe, invisible and untraceable, and it's really quite extraordinary what two Holmeses can do when they are collaborating. Sherlock is a one-man Interpol, and soon the whispers of a new international organisation targeting high-profile criminals spread through the shadow network. He rides on the high of success, the rush of plots perfectly executed. Even though he mostly works alone, only meeting the contacts Mycroft provides him with any kind of semi-regularity, he doesn't feel lonely.

How could he? John might not be here in the flesh, but Sherlock only has to close his eyes, step through the beckoning doors of his palace, to be with him. He forms a habit of visiting him often, daily when he's not on a crucial phase of a case, and the warm feeling of peace he always gets from those visits is enough to keep him coming for more. The whispered praises, the passing touches, that singular almost-kiss he stole from John are lived and relived, and he never grows bored of them. They hold such promise, such solace in the middle of this dark existence.

“Soon,” Sherlock promises him every time. “Very soon now.”

And then comes the October evening when he jolts out of the palace to find a knife pressed against his carotid artery, and the downfall begins. He survives that one with quick thinking, because they simply cannot fathom that one man can be responsible for such a destruction. He promises to give them the names of his contacts, his bosses in this imaginary organisation, cries and sniffles and generally makes himself as wretched as possible. And when they sneer and let him run, planning of course to follow him straight to the non-existent headquarters, he contacts Mycroft, lets him rain hale and brimstone upon those daring to touch him.

But he grows proud, grows impatient. John is waiting, and Sherlock plans to return to London before Christmas. The fastest way to his goal is through the ranks, and so he severs the contact with Mycroft, goes undercover and everything heads straight to Hell.

Turns out Sherlock was not made for a life of petty theft, of grovelling and arse-licking and backstabbing. Too often his temper flares, the constant urge to prove his supremeness gets the better of him, and the progress is halted, started anew somewhere else. The palace grows dank, John-in-his-heart indifferent as his frustrations build up. The target of Christmas becomes Easter, then summer, John's birthday.

Surely he'll be back at home by July.

In May, he's stabbed in Spain just when the heatwave descends upon the central plateau. The wound festers, becomes infected and he flees in delirium. He ends up in a little village somewhere near Toledo, speaking nonsense and calling out for John. He's taken in by a local family and nursed back to health through the scorching summer, but mentally he's in London, far away from this place of burned grass and feverish pain. The palace embraces him and keeps him and Sherlock floats, drowns in John.

When he next opens his eyes and sees the real world, Mycroft is sitting by his bedside. The next hours he doesn't bear thinking about.

Sherlock escapes as soon as he's able to. There's still work to be done, in the east.

The first time he's tortured comes only some weeks later. He's still weakened after the disastrous summer, and they manage to overpower him, four men working for one of Moriarty's remaining lieutenants. They go straight for the knife wound, burning and cutting until Sherlock is out of his mind with the pain and John descends upon him. His body fails, but the palace stands, and Sherlock retreats to the safety of his memories.

And the more he suffers, the more his mind turns it around, makes the pain into a pleasure, the agony into ecstasy, and the _things_ he does with John, oh _God_. They strangle him, and John fucks his mouth with such abandon Sherlock can only cry with gratitude. They keep him awake for days, and John spends the time keeping him hard, on a constant edge until he's dripping and desperate and out of his mind with the overwhelming desire. They push his head underwater and John pushes him into the mattress, takes him time and a time again, reducing him into a shivering ball of nerves and want and never-arriving completion.

It's only when he hears them discussing cutting his throat when he snaps out of the numb confusion, channels John's steel and resolve. During the next night he breaks free of the feeble bindings they use to keep him in place. That he manages even that is a miracle, but he doesn't stop to analyse that, not now when there's a gun on the table and lives to end.

He wakes up days later among the bodies and crawls into the nearest hospital.

Mycroft orders his agents to stand guard behind his door.

Sherlock escapes through the window.

So it doesn't come as any surprise that the third time Mycroft locates him, in Serbia, where he's being suspended in the dank cellars by his wrists and John is in the process of buggering him senseless, he practically handcuffs Sherlock into his own wrist, drags him back into London. Sherlock spends the flight recuperating, still feeling John's imaginary come dripping down his flanks, his insistent erection tearing into his throat. He squirms and shakes and it takes a long while, way too long to understand that he's actually terrified of the prospect of seeing John again.

He, Sherlock Holmes, is terrified of John Watson.

The John-in-his-heart has morphed into this wicked thing of self-defence, he's an escape mechanism and a consoler both. The real John remains a mystery, an unreachable goal. But now Sherlock knows so much more, has lived through so many terrible things with the other John, that he's sure it will show on his face. That John will take one look at him and deduce everything. And when he sees Sherlock's scars, there are going to be questions, angry questions, and how can Sherlock possibly explain without driving him away?

Mycroft sees his distress and remains quiet, his eyes unreadable.

Sherlock withdraws further into the warm blanket, the calming medication. His eyes fall shut, but he doesn't dare visit the palace.

John must never know.


	6. In Which The Reality Is Finally More Surprising Than He Ever Had Hoped to Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for the emotional aftermath of a torture victim and men holding hands.

It's the worst kind of déjà vu, waking up in an impersonal hospital room. He checks for restrictions out of sheer habit, but finds none. Good. The next object of interest waits on his left, the stand holding his medication. Morphine, again. How dull. Weaning himself out of the stuff is always a pain.

Speaking of pain, his hand raises to cradle his breast involuntarily. Under his hand, the broken skin, the violated ribcage feel strange, separated from the rest of his body. He inhales deeply, tests the capacity of his lungs, and is suddenly grateful for the morphine dripping into his blood flow. He's not going to leave any time soon, this time.

Surprisingly, this too seems fine to him. Sherlock is tired, tired of escaping, whether it's from hospitals, more malicious captors or just John.

Scratch that. Escaping from John is the worst choice of the lot. Nothing has worked out the way he had hoped it would, and now John is married to a, a – _liar, killer, murderer, rogue agent, traitor, his beloved, the mother of his child, MARY_ , and Sherlock. Is. Too tired to. Cope with any of this right now.

The sound of his heartbeat lulls him back to a drugged sleep.

–

He's chained like an animal, hanging from his wrists again, and the metal rod slams against his back time and a time again. He's too fatigued to struggle anymore, delirious with the pain and the confusion, and they won't let him escape. The palace is closed to him, locked behind barred doors. It's simple but devious, this thing they've done.

They've made him count the slashes. And he doesn't even know numbers beyond twenty, and he suspects they are far past that point, but they seem to be happy to have him croaking just something, anything, acknowledging that this is happening.

At some point he bit at his tongue, and the blood is everywhere. His nose bleeds too, and his wrists, and he doesn't even dare to think about his back, and still the punishment is coming and he can't help it, the way the fear rises in him and the whole room ranks of his vomit and blood and piss. _45_ , he thinks tiredly, and slurs something that's not even close, and prepares for the next strike.

It never comes. Instead, a rough hand yanks his head back, brings his ear close to a cruel mouth. Words fall over him, and it takes him a moment to figure out that this is English, that he actually understands what's happening.

It's Mycroft, oh God Mycroft is here, Mycroft is speaking to him and Sherlock has never been as happy to see his brother. He wants to cry, wants to beg for Mycroft to just take him away from this place, but then the voice is gone, the hand is gone, and he sees how that same arm reaches for the rod, grasps it with clear intention.

“Count for me, Sherlock,” Mycroft orders, and the world is darkness.

–

He's being kept down and he struggles, mindlessly, escape the only thought he can reach, the only goal he understands. The machines are shouting, and so are the people, and the terror. Won't. Go away.

Somebody is talking to him, but he can't hear over the shrill screeching of his own ears, and then something is placed over his face, over his nose, and he recoils, expecting a strike. The hands push him down, and he can't stand it, can't stand being restrained anymore, and finally he finds his voice and screams.

Something warm rushes through his system, and the darkness claims him back.

It's as though he never left.

–

The first thing he's aware of is the urgent beeping of his own heart monitor. _Elevated_ , he thinks groggily, _poor bastard_.

Time passes, and little by little he becomes more aware of his surroundings. The bed is warm but not very comfortable. His pillow is too thin, his neck in an awkward position. It should be cramping, but isn't. _Great meds_ , is his seconds thought. The third one, _hospital_ , follows soon after. By this point, he's tired enough to consider it a day. _Just a small nap_ , is his last, and longest thought that day.

–

“You absolute idiot,” John says with such fondness that Sherlock actually jerks back to present from the sheer shock of it. He hasn't heard that tone in ages, or maybe not ever before. He opens his eyes, and John is here, sitting by his bedside, and suddenly Sherlock's mouth floods with memories. Salty broth in his mouth, John's lips against his own, his own tears, his own blood, John's penis all battling for supremacy. What is real, what is the result of his own, twisted imagination? He can't tell anymore.

He makes a very undignified sound and stares, mortified. He didn't plan for any of this.

“Yes, I know that, you daft man,” John says and for a moment Sherlock is sure he has finally lost it. Finally lost his mind. The mind palace is already as good as gone for anything not strictly business, so this must be the logical next step. Through his own actions, he has lost first John, then his palace, and now, lastly, his prized brain.

“You know that's not true,” John tells him, looking sad and rejected, and Sherlock, unthinking, reaches out for him, his palm up, his fingers curled. Don't be sad, John. I never wanted you to suffer for any of this.

“Then you're even more idiotic than I thought,” says John, continuing to read his mind. But there's warmth against the skin of his palm, and when he glances down he sees tan fingers crossing with his own. John. Is. Holding his. Hand.

“Yes I am,” John comments, sounding amused, and finally it dawns to Sherlock that he's participating in this conversation. He blinks, surprised.

“The drugs,” he says, and John smiles understandingly. Sweetly. And then he blushes deep red, and Sherlock finds out that keeping his thoughts and words separate is too difficult for his drugged mind.

Which is so very not good, because there are too many things John must not know. Serbia and Spain and that place in between he does his utmost to forget himself, and the palace and the pain and he must stop this right now because John is here, John will see, John will understand and he will turn away, disgusted, and that would be the last straw. No one could possibly cope with it. No one.

“You could,” John chokes out, gripping Sherlock fingers until they turn white, as white as his frantic brain. No. Not this. Please.

“I won't let you fall again,” John whispers, and to Sherlock's failing ears that sounds like an oath, a declaration of fealty he doesn't deserve.

“No you don't,” John confirms, “but you nearly died in my arms, for real this time, and do you remember when you told me you figured it out? Well, I think I did too, right then.”

Sherlock stares, and holds, and the morphine keeps on drip, drip, dripping into his veins and this must be a dream, or one of his delusions. This is the comfort-John, the solace-John speaking. Not the real one, the one who is furious with him, disappointed in him.

“Oh I am, don't you worry about that,” John grimaces and pats his hand. “I'm absolutely mad at you. If you even try for one more stunt like this, then I swear Sherlock, I will kill you myself.”

“That's what she said,” Sherlock remembers, and John's expression turns stormy.

“It doesn't matter what she said,” he says, crushing Sherlock's fingers with the force of his grip. “I read through the contents of that memory stick while you were out of it. It doesn't matter at all what she said.”

Sherlock doesn't understand. It's too much, too fast, and he's still dazed, still hurt and confused.

“Suffice it to say,” John says grimly, “that it wasn't the first time she held you at a gunpoint.”

“What?”

“Oh shuck it, Sherlock, I can't stand it when you are this slow!” John exclaims and kisses him. It's the same and not the same, more lips and pressure and then _tongues_ , and they have to stop quite soon because his heart monitor throws a complete fit and John is too much a doctor to ignore it. It's the kind of kiss which leaves Sherlock breathless, panting and reaching for the morphine, and John takes it all in with a dark gaze.

“When we get back at home, we will have a long talk,” he declares, and Sherlock doesn't know which part of the sentence thrills him more.

“We? Home? Do you mean – .”

“Yes, Sherlock. When we get back at Baker Street, there are going to be words. Prepare yourself. Also, no more of this mind palace madness before that, do you hear me?”

He nods, speechless. During the last years, he's always trusted John. He's not about to stop now.

“You saved me,” he confesses. “You saved me, and you weren't even there.”

“That's good to hear,” John responds, still holding his hand. “Because you saved me too, and I'd hate to be in your debt. Now shut up and sleep, Sherlock. You have a heart to cure.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes and obeys. He knows now that he will always obey.


End file.
